So the Squaw Spy guided the chief to a small cavern which she had lit up with a delicate fire of sage-brush.
One of those many streams that flow beneath the fused surface of the Lava-Beds bordered one side of the cave, and Donald McKay stooped and drank of the cold water before he spoke.
Then he returned to the girl, who was carefully replenishing the fire, and for an hour she enchained his attention by a narrative of her adventures since they had met—adventures well known to the reader.
“You have bad news for the Rangers, Artena,” said Donald. “Kit dead, Cohoon missing, and Evan Harris’ fate wrapped in mystery. The Modocs seem to be getting the best of me. But,” and he sprung to his feet somewhat excited and quite angry, “but we’ll outwit them yet. Girl, you’ve got to go with me.”
“No; I must wait for Cohoon.”
“He will not, can not hunt you; you must hunt him.”
The next moment she stood before him, and her hand touched his arm.
“Do you really think so?” she asked, in a doubtful tone.
“I do. Cohoon should have been here long ere this. Circumstances keep him away. I want you with me. We go to the Bloody Cave. Jack is there.”
“Ah!”